


Speechless

by Killmongerrrr



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dissociation, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Shaolin goes nonverbal a lot, kinda OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killmongerrrr/pseuds/Killmongerrrr
Summary: You’re already so used up, and someone as pure as Books deserves someone just as untouched.





	Speechless

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn’t read the tags, there is mention of (canon) sexual assault and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Don’t read if this is especially triggering.

You ain’t never been good with words; never had a pretty mouth like Books. Your words slip out in clumsy sentences, filled with bravado and futures and dreams. Sometimes they don’t slip out at all, pausing on your tongue when unwanted hands crawl up your sides and burn trails on your skin. 

The quietness makes it easier, makes your body go numb and your mind go blank. It helps you to forget sometimes, to stay grounded when shame inevitably pools into your stomach and over your body in the form of hot shower water and ugly tears.

You find that you can speak when you’re around your brothers, carefree and high-spirited and making music. Books puts the words right back in your mouth, with his rhymes that flow like water and his honey sweet voice. It’s easier to forget invasive palms and unwelcome wetness when he’s talking to you in that softness he saves for just you. 

One night you try closing your eyes and imagining Books on top of you instead of Annie, with his calloused fingers and boney knees. You try to picture a gap-toothed smile and scratchy sideburns. It makes it enjoyable, makes you moan and writhe under the image of Books riding you.

It’s bearable until Annie calls you a natural fuck and shatters the fantasy, ripping it away from your hands like she does with everything else. She finishes and leaves you to clean yourself up, leaves you to cry like you so often do. Shame bubbles in your chest for perverting one of the only good things in your life, and your eyes are red and puffy by the time you leave Les Inferno. 

 

*

 

Books comes over the next day and the two of you smoke on the rooftop of the temple like everything is ok. You ramble about music and spinning and grinning, and he reads you poems about rhythm and flying. You think of your pigeons, of the way Books held Penny in his arms so delicately. You wish he’d hold you like that, you’d wish he’d wrap his arms around you like something romantic and breathe poems into your ear. 

But you ain’t no faggot, you tell yourself, even as you daydream of holding his hands and pressing kisses to his fingers. You crave touch. You crave touch that doesn’t come with a price, that doesn’t come unwanted and violent. You crave him, even though you tell yourself it’s wrong to do so. You’re already so used up, and someone as pure as Books deserves someone just as untouched. 

 

*

 

It’s after a full day of rehearsing and spinning with your brothers, that the Kiplings leave for the night. You’re still fiddling with a record, by the time they’ve all left, experimenting here and there and humming something that sounds familiar. Books is the only one left, besides Napoleon who’s since retreated to his side of the temple. Zeke mutters something under his breath, and the scrape of pencil against paper is the first thing you hear upon removing your headphones.

You are content in these sounds, and you continue to hum even as the temple grows darker with impending nightfall.

Later Books will ask you what you were humming, and you will realize that you don’t remember hearing it at all. Dread crawls through your stomach and you bury the tune back where it crawled out from.

 

*

 

You only go quiet once around your brothers. 

It starts off with you spinning a record, scratching and distorting it with your chest all light as your brothers spit and dance to it. You don’t know how, but it devolves into something ugly and loud. You know that you’re arguing with Books, and you don’t remember the specifics but the words ‘burden’ and ‘fuck-up’ will stick later. At one point Ra tries to separate y’all, but it only escalates the situation, makes you angrier. 

You do remember how Zeke’s face twisted when he asked about Annie, asked why you wouldn’t just leave. You told him that it wasn’t that simple, but he just kept burning and burning like a house on fire. 

“What you got going on with that old bitch that’s more important than us?” He’d asked, and you think that’s when you started feeling the fog.

Your whole mouth had felt like lead then, and you couldn’t speak; couldn’t make a single noise. Maybe you blacked out, because when the fog lifts and your body starts feeling again you’re sitting on the couch and your brothers are tryna rouse you from whatever bullshit you’ve fallen into. You remember feeling so stupid, so fucking humiliated. Your eyes water but you’re not a bitch so you’d turned the water into fire and screamed at them all to leave. In that moment you’d hated every single one of them, but some smaller part of you knew that you just hated yourself. You’d hated yourself for infecting the better part of your life with the numbness and the trauma. You’d hated yourself for once again ruining what you touch. 

That night Annie marked you up in more ways than one, and you’d felt so uncomfortably full. You think you cry this time because she coos into your ears and lets you lay your head in her lap. But all love comes with a price, and no sooner were her hands pushing your head down in between her legs. 

When your mouth is sticky and reality filters out, you will remember how Books called you a fuck-up. He will try to take back the words through half-assed apologies about friendship and brotherhood and you will forgive him because you forgive Books for everything.

Besides, him and Mylene and anyone that’s ever said it was right.

But for now, a familiar tune floods your head. 

 

*

 

You go quiet again on a humid ass day in June. It’s just you and Books this time, with his soft words and pretty face. He’s staring at you, and you wanna say it’s romantic cause he’s looking at you in that way he only looks at people like his butterscotch queen. 

You laugh shakily, ask, “Nigga whatchu lookin at?” 

Then he’s smiling all big and wide, and for a second your skin goes numb. It’s a different type of numb this time though, something enjoyable. 

“I’m looking at you, Nigga.” He says, and then he’s holding your hand and your skin gets clammy and your tongue feels real still. 

“My conductor, Shaolin, my man,  
Can I stare for a sec?  
Can I just hold your hand?  
Mystical like a dream,  
Where only there can I kiss you,  
Can you let me have this one thing?   
Can you let me make you my king?”

You don’t say anything, can’t really. He looks a little discouraged after a minute of just staring, lets go of your hand and just starts uttering apologies and turning away to leave. Panic sparks in your chest and you grab his face, albeit a bit too rough, and turn his head to look at you. You still can’t say anything but you thinks he gets the message cause he smiles that smile you like and kisses you all slow and nice. 

You’re so wrapped up in his love, this thing you’d craved for so long, that you let him touch you up. It’s better than anything Annie has ever sucked into your skin, better than the blankness and the dread. Books makes you feel alive, like you’re flying and fizzling with electricity all at the same time. 

That’s the day Books steals your breath away and replaces it with the words you lost. 

And later when Annie has fucked you up enough that you’re seeing double, you don’t feel like the burden that Books so easily named you as. 

 

*

 

The next time you go quiet it’s the worst experience you’ll ever look back on. You think maybe it’s your fault, letting it get this far.

It’s after a show and you and Books are amped up like something dangerous. Your laughing into his mouth as he kisses you, pushing you till your back is against the couch and he’s leaning over you. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer so you can feel more of him. He kisses and bites at your neck, his hand finding way under your shirt and spreading over your stomach. You shudder, clenching your eyes shut. Dread pools over you but you try to ignore it, try to enjoy the moment. Then Books is tugging at the waistband of your pants and that familiar sense of quietness falls over your head. 

Something like betrayal clogs your head but you don’t do or say anything. You want to say no but your mouth feels like so dry and useless. You want to push him off, but you don’t want to ruin this for him; you know that Books has been waiting to use you. You know that it is your fault for leading him on for so long, for promising something you couldn’t give.

You feel his hand on your dick and your mind wanders off, wanders beyond the temple and Les Inferno. It goes somewhere safe, where you can wait this out and hope for the best; hope that he’ll still want you even after you’ve showered him off. A tiny voice in your head tells you to be grateful that anyone besides Annie would be willing to touch you, that at least there’s no music this time. 

You think that the quietness gives away your blankness; or maybe it’s the way you’ve stopped moving altogether, because suddenly you’re reeling back to reality as Books slips his hand out from under your pants. You blink, and he asks you if you’re ok, that you seemed pretty out of it. 

You sit up and try to talk but your mouth is so slow. Your hands shake and your dick can’t even stay hard because suddenly reality is tugging at your skin and pulling it apart. Everything is too bright, and Books is suddenly so loud and clear, not like before when you couldn’t move or talk. 

Then you’re standing and you can’t think of a single thing to do but run. You’ve haven’t tried this with Annie since the first time, but you know Books wouldn’t fuck you up like she did. 

You hide up on the roof, with your knees pressed up against your chest and your arms wrapped around them. Books comes up eventually, sits next to you but doesn’t touch you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but you know he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. 

You stay quiet, but eventually scoot closer to lean your head against his shoulder. You’ll forgive him for anything, even if it means you’ll have to bury this where you keep the music and the fullness. 

“I love you.” He tells you, and you wonder how someone so pure could love a thing like you. 

You wind your arm around his. 

“I love you too.” You reply, but you don’t tell him what all you’ll do to keep that love. 

Because there is no such thing as a love without a price.


End file.
